POEMS.

Many a sad, sweet thought have I, Many a passing, sunny gleam, Many a bright tear in mine eye, Many a wild and wandering dream, Stolen from hours I should have tied To musty volumes by my side, Given to hours that sweetly wooed My heart from its study's solitude. Oft when the south wind's dancing free Over the earth and in the sky, And the flowers peep softly out to see The frolic Spring as she wantons by, When the breeze and beam like thieves come in, To steal me away, I deem it sin To slight their voice, and away I'm straying Over the hills and vales a Maying. Then can I hear the earth rejoice, Happier than man may ever be, Every fountain hath then a voice That sings of its glad festivity; For it hath burst the chains, that bound Its currents dead in the frozen ground, And flashing away in the sun has gone, Singing, and singing, and singing on. Autumn hath sunset hours, and then Many a musing mood I cherish, Many a hue of fancy, when The hues of earth are about to perish; Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween, Hath real sunset never seen, Sad as the faces of friends that die, And beautiful as their memory. Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep, Visions the mind may not control, Waking as fancy does in sleep The secret transports of the soul, Faces and forms are strangely mingled, Till one by one they're slowly singled, To the voice and lip, and eye of her I worship like an idolater. Many a big, proud tear have I, When from my sweet and roaming track From the green earth and misty sky, And spring and love I hurry back; Then what a dismal, dreary gloom Settles upon my loathed room, Darker to every thought and sense Than if they had never travelled thence. Yet, I have other thoughts that cheer The toilsome day, and lonely night, And many a scene and hope appear, And almost make me gay and bright. Honour and fame that I would win, Though every toil that yet hath been Were doubly borne, and not an hour Were brightly hued by Fancy's power. And though I may sometimes sigh to think Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, And know that the cup which others drink Shall never be brimmed by me; That many a joy must be untasted, And many a glorious breeze be wasted, Yet would not, if I dared, repine, That toil and study and care are mine.

His echoing axe the settler swung Amid the sea-like solitude, And rushing, thundering, down were flung The Titans of the wood; Loud shriek'd the eagle as he dash'd From out his mossy nest, which crash'd With its supporting bough, And the first sunlight, leaping, flash'd On the wolf's haunt below. Rude was the garb, and strong the frame, Of him who plied his ceaseless toil: To form that garb, the wild-wood game Contributed their spoil; The soul, that warm'd that frame, disdain'd The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reign'd Where men their crowds collect; The simple fur, untrimm'd, unstain'd, This forest tamer deck'd. The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees, The stream whose bright lips kiss'd their flowers, The winds that swell'd their harmonies Through those sun-hiding bowers, The temple vast—the green arcade, The nestling vale—the grassy glade, Dark cave and swampy lair; These scenes and sounds majestic, made His world, his pleasures, there. His roof adorn'd a pleasant spot, 'Mid the black logs green glow'd the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not, Throve in the sun and rain. The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell, The low—the bleat—the tinkling bell, All made a landscape strange, Which was the living chronicle Of deeds that wrought the change. The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge, The rose of Summer spread its glow, The maize hung out its Autumn fringe, Rude Winter brought his snow; And still the lone one labour'd there, His shout and whistle woke the air, As cheerily he plied His garden spade, or drove his share Along the hillock's side. He mark'd the fire-storm's blazing flood Roaring and crackling on its path, And scorching earth, and melting wood, Beneath its greedy wrath; He mark'd the rapid whirlwind shoot, Trampling the pine tree with its foot, And darkening thick the day With streaming bough and sever'd root, Hurl'd whizzing on its way. His gaunt hound yell'd, his rifle flash'd, The grim bear hush'd his savage growl, In blood and foam the panther gnash'd His fangs, with dying howl; The fleet deer ceas'd its flying bound, Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, And with its moaning cry, The beaver sank beneath the wound Its pond-built Venice by. Humble the lot, yet his the race! When Liberty sent forth her cry, Who throng'd in Conflict's deadliest place, To fight—to bleed—to die. Who cumber'd Bunker's height of red, By hope, through weary years were led, And witness'd York Town's sun Blaze on a Nation's banner spread, A Nation's freedom won.

Oh, I have lived through keenest care, And still may live through more, We know not what the heart can bear, Until the worst be o'er; The worst is not when fears assail, Before the shaft has sped, Nor when we kiss the visage, pale And beautiful, though dead. Oh, then the heart is nerved to cope With danger and distress, The very impulse left by hope Will make despair seem less; Then all is life—acute, intense, The thoughts in tumult tost, So reels the mind with wildered sense, It knows not what is lost. But when that shuddering scene is past, When earth receives her own, And, wrench'd from what it loved, at last The heart is left alone; When all is gone—our hopes and fears All buried in one tomb, And we have dried the source of tears, There comes a settled gloom. Then comes the worst, the undying thought That broods within the breast, Because its loveliest one is not, And what are all the rest?

I'm not romantic, but, upon my word, There are some moments when one can't help feeling As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirred By things around him, that 'tis vain concealing A little music in his soul still lingers Whene'er its keys are touched by Nature's fingers: And even here, upon this settee lying, With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing, Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying, Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing: For who can look on mountain, sky, and river, Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever? Bright Dian, who, Camilla like, dost skim yon Azure fields—Thou who, once earthward bending, Didst loose thy virgin zone to young Endymion On dewy Latmos to his arms descending— Thou whom the world of old on every shore, Type of thy sex, Triformis, did adore: Tell me—where'er thy silver barque be steering, By bright Italian or soft Persian lands, Or o'er those island-studded seas careering, Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral strands— Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover, A lovelier spot than this the wide world over? Doth Achelöus or Araxes flowing Twin-born from Pindus, but ne'er meeting brothers— Doth Tagus o'er his golden pavement glowing, Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers, The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver, Match they in beauty my own glorious river? What though no turret gray nor ivied column Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear? What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn Of despots tell and superstition here— What though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling walls Did ne'er enclose a baron's bannered halls— Its sinking arches once gave back as proud An echo to the war-blown clarion's peal, As gallant hearts its battlements did crowd As ever beat beneath a vest of steel, When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest day Called forth chivalric host to battle fray: For here amid these woods did He keep court, Before whose mighty soul the common crowd Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought, Are like the Patriarch's sheaves to Heav'n's chos'n bowed— He who his country's eagle taught to soar, And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore. And sights and sounds at which the world have wondered, Within these wild ravines have had their birth; Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thundered, And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth; And not a verdant glade nor mountain hoary But treasures up within the glorious story. And yet not rich in high-souled memories only, Is every moon-touched headland round me gleaming, Each cavernous glen and leafy valley lonely, And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming: But such soft fancies here may breathe around, As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground. Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night— Thou that to love so oft hast lent its soul, Since the lorn Lesbian languished 'neath thy light, Or fiery Romeo to his Juliet stole— Where dost thou find a fitter place on earth To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth? But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest, And Night, more nearly now each step attending, As if to hide thy envied place of rest, Closes at last thy very couch beside, A matron curtaining a virgin bride. Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting, While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver, As of the good when heavenward hence departing, Shines thy last smile upon the placid river. So—could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray— Would I too steal from this dark world away.

The flying joy through life we seek For once is ours—the wine we sip Blushes like Beauty's glowing cheek, To meet our eager lip. Round with the ringing glass once more! Friends of my youth and of my heart— No magic can this hour restore— Then crown it ere we part. Ye are my friends, my chosen ones— Whose blood would flow with fervour true For me—and free as this wine runs Would mine, by Heaven! for you. Yet, mark me! When a few short years Have hurried on their journey fleet, Not one that now my accents hears Will know me when we meet. Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain, The startling thought ye scarce will brook, Yet, trust me, we'll be strangers then In heart as well as look. Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile, Will soon break youthful friendship's chain— But shall that cloud to-night's bright smile? No—pour the wine again!

There's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high And manly beauty of the Roman mould, And the keen flashing of thy full dark eye Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold; Of passions scathed not by the blight of time, Ambition, that survives the battle route. The man within thee scorns to play the mime To gaping crowds that compass thee about. Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side, Wrapped in fierce hate, and high unconquered pride. Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet— Vanquished and captive—dost thou deem that here— The glowing day star of thy glory set— Dull night has closed upon thy bright career? Old forest lion, caught and caged at last, Dost pant to roam again thy native wild? To gloat upon the life blood flowing fast Of thy crushed victims; and to slay the child, To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers, And kill, old Turk! thy harmless pale-faced brothers? For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutter The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers, To let thy tribe commit such fierce, and utter Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers. Though thine be old, hereditary hate, Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until It had become a madness, 'tis too late To crush the hordes who have the power, and will, To rob thee of thy hunting grounds, and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains. Spite of thy looks of cold indifference, There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy wonder, Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder? Our big canoes, with white and wide-spread wings, That sweep the waters, as birds sweep the sky;— Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by? Or if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean, What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion? Thou'st seen our Museums, beheld the dummies That grin in darkness in their coffin cases; What think'st thou of the art of making mummies, So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces? Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour; Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage, Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower. Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down, Pass in a moment from a king—to clown. Thou see'st these things unmoved, say'st so, old fellow? Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughters Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow By a sly cup or so of our fire waters? They are thy people's deadliest poison. They First make them cowards, and then, white men's slaves, And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey, And lives of misery, and early graves. For by their power, believe me, not a day goes, But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes. Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away? To the deep bosom of thy forest home, The hill side, where thy young pappooses play, And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come? Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws, For their lost warrior, loud upon thine ear, Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas, That, yelled at every corner, meet thee here? The wife who made that shell-decked wampum belt, Thy rugged heart must think of her, and melt. Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast Of the caged bird against his prison bars, That thou, the crowned warrior of the west, The victor of a hundred forest wars, Should'st in thy age, become a raree show Led, like a walking bear, about the town, A new caught monster, who is all the go, And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout? Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came, Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun, And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral pile, Of a bound warrior in his agony, Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's, Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's. Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree Is blanched, and bare, and seared, and leafless now. I'll not insult its fallen majesty, Nor drive with careless hand, the ruthless plough Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould, Rich, warm and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, No second verdure quickens in our cold New, barren earth; no life sustains it there. But even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing, Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king." Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature, Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy; The best of blood glows in thy every feature, And thy curled lip speaks scorn for our democracy, Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow; Let him who doubts them, meet thine eagle eye, He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow All question of thy noble family; For thou may'st here become, with strict propriety, A leader in our city good society.

Couldst thou not sleep upon thy mother's breast? Was't thou, ere day dawned, wakened from thy slumbers? Did earth deny to thee the quiet rest She grants to all her children's countless numbers? In narrow bed they sleep away the hours Beneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers; No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow, Thy only winding-sheet the pitying snow. How naked art thou! Pale is now that face Which once, no doubt, was blooming—deeply dinted, A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface; Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted? Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning! No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening; Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad, As though I power o'er thy destiny had. I did not from thy gloomy mansion spurn thee To gaze upon the sun that gilds these fields; But on my pilgrim staff I lift and turn thee, And try if to my spells thy silence yields; Wert thou my brother once—and did those glances Respond to love's and friendship's soft advances? Has then a spirit in this frame-work slept? Say, hast thou loved and hated, smiled and wept? What, silent still!—wilt thou make no disclosure? Is the grave's sleep indeed so cool and still? Say, dost thou suffer from this rude exposure? Hast thou then lost all thought, emotion, will? Or has thy soul, that once within thee centered, On a new field of life and duty entered? Do flesh and spirit still in thee entwine, Dost thou still call this mouldering skull-bone thine? Who wert thou once? what brought thee to these regions, The murderer or the murdered to be? Wert thou enrolled in mercenary legions, Or didst thou Honour's banner follow free? Didst thou desire to be enrolled in story, Didst fight for freedom, peace, truth, gold, or glory? The sword which here dropped from thy helpless hand, Was it the scourge or guardian of the land? Even yet, for thee, beyond yon dim blue mountains, The tear may tremble in a mother's eye, And as approaching death dries up life's fountains, Thou to her thoughts and prayers may'st still be nigh; Perhaps thy orphans still for thee are crying, Perhaps thy friends for thy return are sighing, And dream not that upon this little hill The dews of night upon thy skull distil. Or wert thou one of the accursed banditti Who wrought such outrage on fair Germany? Who made the field a desert, fired the city, Defiled the pure, and captive led the free? Didst thou, in disposition fierce and hellish, Thy span of life with deeds like these embellish? Then—God of righteousness! to thee belongs, Not unto us, to judge and right our wrongs. The sun already toward the west is tending, His rays upon thy hollow temples strike; Thou heed'st them not; heed'st not the rains, descending On good and bad, just and unjust alike. The mild, cool breeze of even is round me playing, Sweet perfume from the woods and fields are straying; Rich grain now waves where lances bristled then; Thus do all things proclaim God's love to men. Whoe'er thou wert, who by a fellow-mortal Were hurried out of life; we are at peace; Thus I return thee to the grave's dark portal, Revenge and hatred on this spot should cease. Rest where thy mouldering skeleton reposes, And may the perfume of the forest roses Waft thoughts of peace to every wanderer's breast! Thou restless one! return thee to thy rest.

I know thou dost love me—ay! frown as thou wilt, And curl that beautiful lip Which I never can gaze on without the guilt Of burning its dew to sip. I know that my heart is reflected in thine, And, like flowers that over a brook incline, They toward each other dip. Though thou lookest so cold in these halls of light, 'Mid the careless, proud, and gay, I will steal like a thief in thy heart at night, And pilfer its thoughts away. I will come in thy dreams at the midnight hour, And thy soul in secret shall own the power It dares to mock by day.

Encircled by the screening shade, With scatter'd bush, and bough, And grassy slopes, a pleasant glade Is spread before me now; The wind that shows its forest search By the sweet fragrance of the birch Is whispering on my brow, And the mild sunshine flickers through The soft white cloud and summer blue. Far to the North, the Delaware Flows mountain-curv'd along, By forest bank, by summit bare, It bends in rippling song; Receiving in each eddying nook The waters of the vassal brook, It sweeps more deep and strong; Round yon green island it divides, And by this quiet woodland glides. The ground bird flutters from the grass That hides her tiny nest, The startled deer, as by I pass, Bounds in the thicket's breast; The red-bird rears his crimson wing From the long fern of yonder spring, A sweet and peaceful rest Breathes o'er the scene, where once the sound Of battle shook the gory ground. Long will the shuddering hunter tell How once, in vengeful wrath, Red warriors raised their fiercest yell And trod their bloodiest path; How oft the sire—the babe—the wife Shriek'd vain beneath the scalping knife 'Mid havoc's fiery scathe; Until the boldest quail'd to mark, Wrapp'd round the woods, Night's mantle dark. At length the fisher furl'd his sail Within the shelter'd creek, The hunter trod his forest trail The mustering band to seek; The settler cast his axe away, And grasp'd his rifle for the fray, All came, revenge to wreak— With the rude arms that chance supplied, And die, or conquer, side by side. Behind the footsteps of their foe, They rush'd, a gallant throng, Burning with haste, to strike a blow For each remembered wrong; Here on this field of Minisink, Fainting they sought the river's brink Where cool waves gush'd along; No sound within the woods they heard, But murmuring wind and warbling bird. A shriek!—'tis but the panther's—nought Breaks the calm sunshine there, A thicket stirs!—a deer has sought From sight a closer lair; Again upon the grass they droop, When burst the well-known whoop on whoop Shrill, deafening on the air, And bounding from their ambush'd gloom, Like wolves the savage warriors come. In vain upsprung that gallant band And seized their weapons by, Fought eye to eye, and hand to hand, Alas! 'twas but to die; In vain the rifle's skilful flash Scorch'd eagle plume and wampum sash; The hatchet hiss'd on high, And down they fell in crimson heaps, Like the ripe corn the sickle reaps. In vain they sought the covert dark, The red knife gash'd each head, Each arrow found unerring mark, Till earth was pil'd with dead. Oh! long the matron watch'd, to hear Some voice and footstep meet her ear, Till hope grew faint with dread; Long did she search the wood-paths o'er, That voice and step she heard no more. Years have pass'd by, the merry bee Hums round the laurel flowers, The mock-bird pours her melody Amid the forest bowers; A skull is at my feet, though now The wild rose wreathes its bony brow, Relic of other hours. It bids the wandering pilgrim think Of those who died at Minisink.

The morn! the morn, this mountain breeze, How pure it seems, from earth how free; What sweet and sad moralities Breathe from this air that comes to me. Look down, my spirit! see below, Earth darkly sleeps were shades prevail, Or wakes to tears that vainly flow, Or dreams of hopes that surely fail. Why should'st thou linger there, and burn With passions like these fools of time? Unfold thy wings, their follies spurn, And soar to yon eternal clime. Look round, my spirit! to these hills The earliest sunlight lends its ray; Morning's pure air these far heights fills, Here evening holiest steals away. Thus when with firm-resolving breast, Though bound to earth thou liv'st on high, Shalt thou with earlier light be blest, More purely live, more calmly die. This darkling dawn, doth it not bring Visions of former glory back? Arouse, my spirit! plume thy wing, And soar with me on holier track. Canst thou not with unclouded eye, And fancy-rapt, the scene survey, When darkness bade its shadows fly, And earth rose glorious into day? Canst thou not see that earth, its Spring Unfaded yet by death or crime, In freshest green, yet mellowing Into the gorgeous Autumn's prime? Dost thou not see the eternal choir Light on each peak that wooes the sky, Fold their broad wings of golden fire, And string their seraph minstrelsy? Then what sublimest music filled Rejoicing heaven and rising earth, When angel harps the chorus swelled, And stars hymned forth creation's birth. See how the sun comes proudly on His glorious march! before our sight The swathing mists, their errand done, Are melting into morning light. He tips the peak, its dark clouds fly, He walks its sides, and shades retreat; He pours his flood of radiancy On streams and lowlands at its feet. Lord! let thy rays thus pierce, illume Each dim recess within my heart; From its deep darkness chase all gloom, And to its weakness strength impart. Thus let thy light upon me rise, Here let my home for ever be; Far above earth, its toys and ties, Yet humbly kneeling, Lord, to thee!

Nay, think not, dear Lais, I feel a regret That another awakened thy sigh, Or repine that some traces remain of it yet In the beam of that eloquent eye. Though the light of its smile on a rival had shone Ere it taught me the way to adore, Shall I scorn the bright gem now I know it my own, Because it was polished before? And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won, It but fits it the better for bliss; As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun, Grows ripe from the warmth of his kiss.

Oh Time and Death! with certain pace, Though still unequal, hurrying on, O'erturning, in your awful race, The cot, the palace, and the throne! Not always in the storm of war, Nor by the pestilence that sweeps From the plague-smitten realms afar, Beyond the old and solemn deeps: In crowds the good and mighty go, And to those vast dim chambers hie:— Where, mingled with the high and low, Dead Cæsars and dead Shakspeares lie! Dread Ministers of God! sometimes Ye smite at once, to do His will, In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes, Those—whose renown ye cannot kill! When all the brightest stars that burn At once are banished from their spheres, Men sadly ask, when shall return Such lustre to the coming years? For where is he [A]—who lived so long— Who raised the modern Titan's ghost, And showed his fate, in powerful song, Whose soul for learning's sake was lost? Where he—who backwards to the birth Of Time itself, adventurous trod, And in the mingled mass of earth Found out the handiwork of God? [B] Where he—who in the mortal head, [C] Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace The soul's vast features, that shall tread The stars, when earth is nothingness? Where he—who struck old Albyn's lyre, [D] Till round the world its echoes roll, And swept, with all a prophet's fire, The diapason of the soul? Where he—who read the mystic lore, [E] Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep; And dared presumptuous to explore Secrets four thousand years could keep? Where he—who with a poet's eye [F] Of truth, on lowly nature gazed, And made even sordid Poverty Classic, when in his numbers glazed? Where—that old sage so hale and staid, [G] The "greatest good" who sought to find; Who in his garden mused, and made All forms of rule, for all mankind? And thou—whom millions far removed [H] Revered—the hierarch meek and wise, Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved, Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies. He too—the heir of glory—where [I] Hath great Napoleon's scion fled? Ah! glory goes not to an heir! Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead! But hark! a nation sighs! for he, [J] Last of the brave who perilled all To make an infant empire free, Obeys the inevitable call! They go—and with them is a crowd, For human rights who thought and did, We rear to them no temples proud, Each hath his mental pyramid. All earth is now their sepulchre, The mind, their monument sublime— Young in eternal fame they are— Such are your triumphs, Death and Time.

Why blame old Sol, who, all on fire, Prints on your lip the burning kiss; Why should he not your charms admire, And dip his beam each morn in bliss? Were't mine to guide o'er paths of light The beam-haired coursers of the sky, I'd stay their course the livelong night To gaze upon thy sleeping eye. Then let the dotard fondly spring, Each rising day, to snatch the prize; 'Twill add new vigour to his wing, And speed his journey through the skies.

Thou sweet musician, that around my bed Dost nightly come and wind thy little horn, By what unseen and secret influence led, Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn? The wind harp's tones are not more soft than thine, The hum of falling waters not more sweet, I own, indeed, I own thy song divine. And when next year's warm summer nights we meet, (Till then, farewell!) I promise thee to be A patient listener to thy minstrelsy. Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse Such eloquent music? was't thy tuneful sire? Some old musician? or did'st take a course Of lessons from some master of the lyre? Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump? Did Norton form thy notes so clear and full? Art a phrenologist, and is the bump Of song developed on thy little skull? At Niblo's hast thou been when crowds stood mute Drinking the birdlike tones of Cuddy's flute? Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song, Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer, Or lay of love, thou pipest through the long Still night? With song dost drive away dull care? Art thou a vieux garçon, a gay deceiver, A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets, Pledging thy faith to every fond believer, Who thy advance with half-way shyness meets? Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee, "In maiden meditation, fancy free?" Thou little Syren, when the nymphs of yore Charmed with their songs till men forgot to dine, And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore, Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine, They sang but to entice, and thou dost sing As if to lull our senses to repose, That thou may'st use, unharmed, thy little sting The very moment we begin to doze; Thou worse than Syren, thirsty, fierce blood-sipper, Thou living Vampyre, and thou Gallinipper! Nature is full of music, sweetly sings The bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too,) Through the wide circuit of created things, Thou art the living proof the bard sings true. Nature is full of thee; on every shore, 'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child, From warm Peru to icy Labrador, The world's free citizen thou roamest wild. Wherever "mountains rise or oceans roll," Thy voice is heard, from "Indus to the Pole." The incarnation of Queen Mab art thou, "The Fairies' midwife;"—thou dost nightly sip, With amorous proboscis bending low, The honey dew from many a lady's lip— (Though that they "straight on kisses dream," I doubt) On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep, Thou lightest, and oft with "sympathetic snout" "Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep;" And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan, "On the fore-finger of an alderman." Yet thou can'st glory in a noble birth. As rose the sea-born Venus from the wave, So didst thou rise to life; the teeming earth, The living water, and the fresh air gave A portion of their elements to create Thy little form, though beauty dwells not there. So lean and gaunt, that economic fate Meant thee to feed on music or on air. Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee, Thou living, singing, stinging atomy. The hues of dying sunset are most fair, And twilight's tints just fading into night, Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes are By far the sweetest when thou tak'st thy flight. The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine; Sweet are the wind harp's tones at distance heard; 'Tis sweet in distance at the day's decline, To hear the opening song of evening's bird. But notes of harp or bird at distance float Less sweetly on the ear than thy last note. The autumn winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge; Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom. Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surge Whelms the tost mariner in its watery tomb, Then soar, and sing thy little life away! Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now. 'Tis well to end in music life's last day, Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou: For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours, And pass away with Autumn's dying flowers.

Yes! I swore to be true, I allow, And I meant it, but, some how or other, The seal of that amorous vow Was pressed on the lips of another. Yet I did but as all would have done, For where is the being, dear cousin, Content with the beauties of one When he might have the range of a dozen? Young Love is a changeable boy, And the gem of the sea-rock is like him, For he gives back the beams of his joy To each sunny eye that may strike him. From a kiss of a zephyr and rose Love sprang in an exquisite hour, And fleeting and sweet, heaven knows, Is this child of a sigh and a flower.

Far in the forest's heart, unknown, Except to sun and breeze, Where solitude her dreaming throne Has held for centuries; Chronicled by the rings and moss That tell the flight of years across The seamed and columned trees, This lovely streamlet glides along With tribute of eternal song! Now, stealing through its thickets deep In which the wood-duck hides, Now, picturing in its basin sleep Its green pool-hollowed sides, Here, through the pebbles slow it creeps, There, 'mid some wild abyss it sweeps, And foaming, hoarsely chides; Then slides so still, its gentle swell Scarce ripples round the lily's bell. Nature, in her autumnal dress Magnificent and gay, Displays her mantled gorgeousness To hide the near decay, Which, borne on Winter's courier breath, Warns the old year prepare for death, When, tottering, seared, and gray, Ice-fettered, it will sink below The choking winding-sheet of snow. A blaze of splendour is around, As wondrous and as bright As that, within the fairy ground, Which met Aladdin's sight. The sky, a sheet of silvery sheen With breaks of tenderest blue between, As though the summer light Was melting through, once more to cast A glance of gladness ere it passed. The south-west airs of ladened balm Come breathing sweetly by, And wake amid the forest's calm One quick and shivering sigh, Shaking, but dimpling not the glass Of this smooth streamlet, as they pass— They scarcely wheel on high The thistle's downy, silver star, To waft its pendent seed afar. Dream-like the silence, only woke By the grasshopper's glee, And now and then the lazy stroke Of woodcock [K] on the tree: And mingling with the insect hum, The beatings of the partridge drum, With frequently a bee Darting its music, and the crow Harsh cawing from the swamp below. A foliage world of glittering dyes Gleams brightly on the air, As though a thousand sunset skies, With rainbows, blended there; Each leaf an opal, and each tree A bower of varied brilliancy, And all one general glare Of glory, that o'erwhelms the sight With dazzling and unequalled light. Rich gold with gorgeous crimson, here The birch and maple twine, The beech its orange mingles near With emerald of the pine; And e'en the humble bush and herb Are glowing with those tints superb, As though a scattered mine Of gems, upon the earth were strewn, Flashing with radiance, each its own. All steeped in that delicious charm Peculiar to our land, Glimmering in mist, rich, purple, warm, When Indian Summer's hand Has filled the valley with its smoke, And wrapped the mountain in its cloak, While, timidly and bland, The sunbeams struggle from the sky, And in long lines of silver lie. The squirrel chatters merrily, The nut falls ripe and brown, And gem-like from the jewelled tree The leaf comes fluttering down; And restless in his plumage gay, From bush to bush loud screams the jay, While on the hemlock's crown The sentry pigeon guards from foes The flock that dots the neighbouring boughs. See! on this edge of forest lawn, Where sleeps the clouded beam, A doe has led her spotted fawn To gambol by the stream; Beside yon mullein's braided stalk They hear the gurgling voices talk, While, like a wandering gleam, The yellow-bird dives here and there, A feathered vessel of the air. On, through the rampart walls of rock The waters pitch in white, And high, in mist, the cedars lock Their boughs, half lost to sight Above the whirling gulf—the dash Of frenzied floods, that vainly lash Their limits in their flight, Whose roar the eagle, from his peak, Responds to with his angriest shriek. Stream of the age-worn forest! here The Indian, free as thou, Has bent against thy depths his spear, And in thy woods his bow; The beaver built his dome; but they, The memories of an earlier day, Like those dead trunks, that show What once were mighty pines—have fled With Time's unceasing, rapid tread.

Wend, love, with me, to the deep woods wend, Where, far in the forest, the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep. Thou shalt gather from buds of the oriole's hue, Whose flaming wings round our pathway flit, From the safron orchis and lupin blue, And those like the foam on my courser's bit. One steed and one saddle us both shall bear, One hand of each on the bridle meet; And beneath the wrist that entwines me there An answering pulse from my heart shall beat. I will sing thee many a joyous lay, As we chase the deer by the blue lake-side, While the winds that over the prairie play Shall fan the cheek of my woodland bride. Our home shall be by the cool bright streams, Where the beaver chooses her safe retreat, And our hearth shall smile like the sun's warm gleams Through the branches around our lodge that meet. Then wend with me, to the deep woods wend, Where far in the forest the wild flowers keep, Where no watching eye shall over us bend, Save the blossoms that into thy bower peep.

Weel, Fitz, I'm here; the mair's the pity, I'll wad ye curse the vera city From which I write a braid Scots ditty Afore I learn it; But gif ye canna mak it suit ye, Ye ken ye'll burn it. My grunzie's got a twist until it Thae damn'd Scotch aighs sae stuff and fill it I doubt, wi' a' my doctor skill, it 'll keep the gait, Not e'en my pen can scratch a billet And write it straight. Ye're aiblins thinking to forgather Wi' a hale sheet, of muir and heather O' burns, and braes, and sic like blether, To you a feast; But stop! ye will not light on either This time at least. Noo stir your bries a wee and ferlie, Then drap your lip and glower surly; Troth! gif ye do, I'll tell ye fairly, Ye'll no be right; We've made our jaunt a bit too early For sic a sight. What it may be when summer deeds Muir shaw and brae, wi' bonnie weeds Sprinkling the gowan on the meads And broomy knowes, I dinna ken; but now the meads Scarce keep the cows. For trees, puir Scotia's sadly scanted, A few bit pines and larches planted, And thae, wee, knurlie, blastic, stuntit As e'er thou sawest; Row but a sma' turf fence anent it, Hech! there's a forest. For streams, ye'll find a puny puddle That would na float a shull bairn's coble, A cripple stool might near hand hobble Dry-baughted ever; Some whinstone crags to mak' it bubble, And there's a river. And then their cauld and reekie skies, They luke ower dull to Yankee eyes; The sun ye'd ken na if he's rise Amaist the day; Just a noon blink that hardly dries The dewy brae. Yet leeze auld Scotland on her women, Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman, For luver's heart or blade of foeman O'er baith victorious; E'en common sense, that plant uncommon, Grows bright and glorious. Fecks but my pen has skelp'd alang, I've whistled out an unco sang 'Bout folk I ha' na been amang Twa days as yet; But, faith, the farther that I gang The mair ye'll get. Sae sharpen up your lugs, for soon I'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon, See Mungo's well, and set my shoon Where i' the dark Bauld Tammie keek'd, the drunken loon, At cutty sark. And I shall tread the hallowed bourne Where Wallace blew his bugle-horn O'er Edward's banner, stained and torn. What Yankee bluid But feels its free pulse leap and burn Where Wallace stood! But pouk my pen! I find I'm droppin My braw Scots style to English loppin; I fear amaist that ye'll be hoppin I'd quit it quite: If so, I e'en must think o' stopping, And sae, gude night.

Eve o'er our path is stealing fast; Yon quivering splendours are the last The sun will fling, to tremble o'er The waves that kiss the opposing shore; His latest glories fringe the height Behind us, with their golden light. The mountain's mirror'd outline fades Amid the fast extending shades; Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride, Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide; For the great stream a bulwark meet That laves its rock-encumbered feet. River and Mountain! though to song Not yet, perchance, your names belong; Those who have loved your evening hues Will ask not the recording Muse, What antique tales she can relate, Your banks and steeps to consecrate. Yet should the stranger ask, what lore Of by-gone days, this winding shore, Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell, If vocal made by Fancy's spell,— The varying legend might rehearse Fit themes for high, romantic verse. O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod; Or peer'd, with hunter's gaze, to mark The progress of the glancing bark. Spoils, strangely won on distant waves, Have lurked in yon obstructed caves. When the great strife for Freedom rose Here scouted oft her friends and foes, Alternate, through the changeful war, And beacon-fires flashed bright and far; And here, when Freedom's strife was won, Fell, in sad feud, her favoured son;— Her son,—the second of the band, The Romans of the rescued land. Where round yon cape the banks ascend, Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend; There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh, There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye. There last he stood. Before his sight Flowed the fair river, free and bright; The rising Mart, and Isles, and Bay, Before him in their glory lay,— Scenes of his love and of his fame,— The instant ere the death-shot came.

Thou fragile thing That with a breath I could destroy, What mighty train of care and joy Do ye not bring? Emblem of power! By thee comes public bane or good; The wheels of state, without thee, would Stop in an hour. Tower, dome, and arch, Thou spreadest o'er the desert waste, Thou guid'st the path of war, and stay'st The army's march. The spreading seas For thee unnumbered squadrons bear, Ruler of earth, and sea, and air— When bended knees Are bowed in prayer, Although to heaven is given each word, Thy influence in the heart, unheard, Is upmost there! Fly! minion, fly! Thine errand is unfinished yet— The boon I covet,—to forget! Thou canst not buy.

Our Western land can boast no lovelier spot. The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand, Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist, Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below The silent river, with majestic sweep, Pursues his shadowed way,—his glassy face Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing. Talk ye of solitude?—It is not here. Nor silence.—Low, deep murmurs are abroad. Those towering hills hold converse with the sky That smiles upon their summits;—and the wind Which stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life, And bears the burthen sweet from leaf to leaf, Bidding the stately forest boughs look bright, And nod to greet his coming!—And the brook, That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down From the hill-side, has, too, a tale to tell; The wild bird's music mingles with its chime;— And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path, Send forth their perfume as an added gift. The river utters, too, a solemn voice, And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone, When not a sound was heard along his shores, Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek Of some expiring captive,—and no bark E'er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves Are vocal often with the hunter's song;— Now visit, in their glad and onward course, The abodes of happy men—gardens and fields— And cultured plains—still bearing, as they pass, Fertility renewed and fresh delights. The time has been,—so Indian legends say,— When here the mighty Delaware poured not His ancient waters through—but turned aside Through yonder dell, and washed those shaded vales. Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill, Which smiled in the warm sunbeams, and displayed The wealth of summer on its graceful slope. Thither the hunter chieftains oft repaired To light their council fires,—while its dim height, For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared— 'Tis said—to scale; save one white-haired old man, Who there held commune with the Indian's God, And thence brought down to men his high commands. Years passed away—the gifted seer had lived Beyond life's natural term, and bent no more His weary limbs to seek the mountain's summit. New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien, Who strove against each other. Blood and death Filled those green shades, where all before was peace, And the stern warrior scalped his dying captive E'en on the precincts of that holy spot Where the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who mourned The unnatural slaughter, urged the aged priest Again to seek the consecrated height, Succour from heaven, and mercy to implore.— They watched him from afar. He laboured slowly High up the steep ascent—and vanished soon Behind the folded clouds, which clustered dark As the last hues of sunset passed away. The night fell heavily—and soon were heard Low tones of thunder from the mountain top, Muttering, and echoed from the distant hills In deep and solemn peal,—while lurid flashes Of lightning rent anon the gathering gloom. Then wilder and more loud, a fearful crash Burst on the startled ear;—the earth, convulsed, Groaned from its solid centre—forests shook For leagues around,—and by the sudden gleam Which flung a fitful radiance on the spot, A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rent From top to base—and where so late had smiled Green boughs and blossoms—yawned a frightful chasm, Filled with unnatural darkness.—From afar The distant roar of waters then was heard; They came—with gathering sweep—o'erwhelming all That checked their headlong course;—the rich maize field,— The low-roofed hut—its sleeping inmates—all— Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin. Morn looked upon the desolated scene Of the Great Spirit's anger—and beheld Strange waters passing through the cloven rocks:— And men looked on in silence and in fear, And far removed their dwellings from the spot, Where now no more the hunter chased his prey, Or the war-whoop was heard.—Thus years went on: Each trace of desolation vanished fast; Those bare and blackened cliffs were overspread With fresh green foliage, and the swelling earth Yielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides. The river passed majestically on Through his new channel—verdure graced his banks;— The wild bird murmured sweetly as before In its beloved woods,—and nought remained,— Save the wild tales which chieftains told,— To mark the change celestial vengeance wrought.

Down in the deep Dark holes I keep, And there in the noontide I float and sleep, By the hemlock log, And the springing bog, And the arching alders, I lie incog. The angler's fly Comes dancing by, But never a moment it cheats my eye; For the hermit trout Is not such a lout As to be by a wading boy pulled out. King of the brook, No fisher's hook Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook; But here I lie, And laugh as they try; Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I! But when the streams, With moonlight beams, Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams, Then, then look out For the hermit trout; For he springs and dimples the shallows about, While the tired angler dreams.

Come, gentle May! Come with thy robe of flowers, Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers; Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day, From their imprisoning and mysterious night, The buds of many hues, the children of thy light. Come, wondrous May! For at the bidding of thy magic wand, Quick from the caverns of the breathing land, In all their green and glorious array They spring, as spring the Persian maids to hail Thy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale. Come, vocal May! Come with thy train, that high On some fresh branch pour out their melody; Or carolling thy praise the live-long day, Sit perched in some lone glen, on echo calling, 'Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling. Come, sunny May! Come with thy laughing beam, What time the lazy mist melts on the stream, Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray, Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power. Come, holy May! When sunk behind the cold and western hill, His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill, And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay; Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be Like a pure temple consecrate to thee. Come, beautiful May! Like youth and loveliness, Like her I love; Oh, come in thy full dress, The drapery of dark winter cast away; To the bright eye and the glad heart appear, Queen of the Spring and mistress of the year. Yet, lovely May! Teach her whose eye shall rest upon this rhyme To spurn the gilded mockeries of time, The heartless pomp that beckons to betray, And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year, Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear. And let me too, sweet May! Let thy fond votary see, As fade thy beauties, all the vanity Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay In his short winter, bury beauty's frame, In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, Another Spring shall bloom eternal and the same.

Bird of the lone and joyless night— Whence is thy sad and solemn lay? Attendant on the pale moon's light, Why shun the garish blaze of day? When darkness fills the dewy air, Nor sounds the song of happier bird, Alone amid the silence there Thy wild and plaintive note is heard. Thyself unseen—thy pensive moan Poured in no loving comrade's ear— The forest's shaded depths alone That mournful melody can hear. Beside what still and secret spring, In what dark wood, the livelong day, Sit'st thou with dusk and folded wing, To while the hours of light away. Sad minstrel! thou hast learned like me, That life's deceitful gleam is vain; And well the lesson profits thee, Who will not trust its charms again! Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill, To listening night when mirth is o'er: I, heedless of the warning, still Believe, to be deceived once more!

They are mockery all, those skies! those skies! Their untroubled depths of blue; They are mockery all, these eyes! these eyes! Which seem so warm and true; Each quiet star in the one that lies, Each meteor glance that at random flies The other's lashes through. They are mockery all, these flowers of Spring, Which her airs so softly woo; And the love to which we would madly cling, Ay! it is mockery too. For the winds are false which the perfume stir, And the lips deceive to which we sue, And love but leads to the sepulchre; Which flowers spring to strew.

The clouds have their own language unto me They have told many a tale in by-gone days, At twilight's hour, when gentle reverie Steals o'er the heart, as tread the elfish fays With their fleet footsteps on the moonlit grass, And leave their storied circles where they pass. So, even so, to me the embracing clouds, With their pure thoughts leave holy traces here; And from the tempest-gathered fold that shrouds The darkening earth, unto the blue, and clear, And sunny brightness of yon arching sky, They have their language and their melody. Have you not felt it when the dropping rain From the soft showers of Spring hath clothed the earth With its unnumbered offspring? felt not when The conquering sun hath proudly struggled forth In misty radiance, until cloud and spot Were blended in one brightness? Can you not Look out and love when the departing sun Enrobes their peaks in shapes fantastical In his last splendour, and reflects upon Their skirts his farewell smile ere shadows fall Above his burial, like our boyhood's gleams Of fading light, or like the "stuff of dreams?" Or giving back those tints indefinite, Yet brightly blending, there to form that arch Whereon the angel-spirits of the light Marshalled their joyous and triumphant march, When sank the whelming waters, and again Left the green islands to the sons of men? Oh, then as rose each lofty pile, and threw Its growing shadow on the sinking tide, How glowed each peak with the resplendent hue, As its new lustre told that wrath had died, Till the blue waves within their limits curled, And that broad bow in beauty spanned the world. Gaze yet again, and you may see on high The opposing hosts that mutter as they form Their stern battalions, ere the artillery Bids the destroying angel guide its storm; If you have heard on battle's eve the low Defiance quickly uttered to the foe, When the firm ranks gaze fiercely brow on brow And eye on eye, while every heart beats fast With hopes and fears, all feel, but none avow, Pulsations which perchance may be their last, Whom the unhonoured sepulchre shall shroud; If you have seen this, gaze upon that cloud. How from the bosom of its blackness springs The cleaving lightning kindling on its way, Flinging such blinding glory from its wings, That he who looks grows drunk with its array Of power and beauty, till his eye is dim, And dazzling darkness overshadows him. Oh, God! can he conceive who hath not known The wondrous workings of thy firmament, Thine untold majesty, around whose throne They stand, thy winged messengers, or sent In light or darkness on their destined path, Bestow thy blessings or direct thy wrath. Then here, in this thy lower temple, here We kneel to thee in worship; what to these Symbols of thine, wherein thou dost appear Are painted domes or priestly palaces; On this green turf, and gazing on yon sphere, We call on thee to commune and to bless, And see in holy fancy each pure sigh Ascend like incense to thy throne on high.

That blessed isle lies far away— 'Tis many a weary league from land, Where billows in their golden play Dash on its sparkling sand. No tempest's wrath, or stormy waters' roar, Disturb the echoes of that peaceful shore. There the light breezes lie at rest, Soft pillowed on the glassy deep; Pale cliffs look on the waters' breast, And watch their silent sleep. There the wild swan with plumed and glossy wing Sits lone and still beside the bubbling spring. And far within, in murmurs heard, Comes, with the wind's low whispers there, The music of the mounting bird, Skimming the clear bright air. The sportive brook, with free and silvery tide, Comes wildly dancing from the green hill side. The sun there sheds his noontide beam On oak-crowned hill and leafy bowers; And gaily by the shaded stream Spring forth the forest flowers. The fountain flings aloft its showery spray, With rainbows decked, that mock the hues of day. And when the dewy morning breaks, A thousand tones of rapture swell; A thrill of life and motion wakes Through hill, and plain, and dell. The wild bird trills his song—and from the wood The red deer bounds to drink beside the flood. There, when the sun sets on the sea, And gilds the forest's waving crown, Strains of immortal harmony To those sweet shades come down. Bright and mysterious forms that green shore throng, And pour in evening's ear their charmed song. E'en on this cold and cheerless shore, While all is dark and quiet near, The huntsman, when his toils are o'er, That melody may hear. And see, faint gleaming o'er the waters' foam, The glories of that isle, his future home.

Light as love's smiles the silvery mist at morn Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river; The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne, As high in air she carols, faintly quiver; The weeping birch, like banners idly waving, Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving; Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver; The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping, And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping. I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ere The blasts of Winter chase the varied dyes That gaily deck the slow-declining year; I love the splendour of thy sunset skies, The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf, Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief; I love the note of each wild bird that flies, As on the wind she pours her parting lay, And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away. Oh, Nature! still I fondly turn to thee With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;— Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be, Toward thee I still the same devotion bear; To thee—to thee—though health and hope no more Life's wasted verdure may to me restore— I still can, child-like, come as when in prayer I bowed my head upon a mother's knee, And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.

Land of the brave! where lie inurned The shrouded forms of mortal clay, In whom the fire of valour burned, And blazed upon the battle's fray: Land, where the gallant Spartan few Bled at Thermopylæ of yore, When death his purple garment threw On Helle's consecrated shore! Land of the Muse! within thy bowers Her soul entrancing echoes rung, While on their course the rapid hours Paused at the melody she sung— Till every grove and every hill, And every stream that flowed along, From morn to night repeated still The winning harmony of song. Land of dead heroes! living slaves! Shall glory gild thy clime no more? Her banner float above thy waves Where proudly it hath swept before? Hath not remembrance then a charm To break the fetters and the chain, To bid thy children nerve the arm, And strike for freedom once again? No! coward souls! the light which shone On Leuctra's war-empurpled day, The light which beamed on Marathon Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play; And thou art but a shadow now, With helmet shattered—spear in rust— Thy honour but a dream—and thou Despised—degraded in the dust! Where sleeps the spirit, that of old Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chant of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom?— The bold three hundred—where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrants have trampled on the clay, Where death has hushed them into rest. Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill A glory shines of ages fled; And fame her light is pouring still, Not on the living, but the dead! But 'tis the dim sepulchral light, Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, As moon-beams on the brow of night, When tempests sweep upon their way. Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance, Behold thy banner waves afar; Behold the glittering weapons glance Along the gleaming front of war! A gallant chief, of high emprize, Is urging foremost in the field, Who calls upon thee to arise In might—in majesty revealed. In vain, in vain the hero calls— In vain he sounds the trumpet loud! His banner totters—see! it falls In ruin, Freedom's battle shroud: Thy children have no soul to dare Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare, Which gleams a moment, and expires. Lost land! where Genius made his reign, And reared his golden arch on high; Where Science raised her sacred fane, Its summits peering to the sky; Upon thy clime the midnight deep Of ignorance hath brooded long, And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep The sons of science and of song. Thy sun hath set—the evening storm Hath passed in giant fury by, To blast the beauty of thy form, And spread its pall upon the sky! Gone is thy glory's diadem, And freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!

The lilies faintly to the roses yield, As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie, (Who would not strive upon so sweet a field To win the mastery?) And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes revealed, Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unsealed. I could not wish that in thy bosom aught Should e'er one moment's transient pain awaken, Yet can't regret that thou—forgive the thought— As flowers when shaken Will yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind, Should, ruffled thus, betray thy heavenly mind.

Hast thou no soul, that thou canst be unmoved At glorious sports like these? Even now I see Come forth the noble charioteers, arrayed In red, white, green, and azure, like the sky, The eye of beauty dazzled by their hue! And now with eager hopes and proud desires Exulting, lo! the youthful, daring band Start to the race, and fiercely seize the reins! Onward they rush; a thousand voices hail The alternate victor as he speeds along; Ten thousand eyes pursue the chariot flight, And as they gaze, as many thousand souls Swell in their bosoms and almost leap out. Then comes the glorious moment when the goal Is almost reached—they goad the foremost steeds Lashing with all their might upon their flanks; The golden chariot glitters in the course, And swifter than the wind is borne along— And now the victor, like a flash of light, Bursts on the view, and hails the loud acclaim, While lengthening shouts of triumph rend the air! Waldimar, a Tragedy. Act II., Scene I.

O would that she were here, These hills and dales among, Where vocal groves are gayly mocked By echo's airy tongue,— Where jocund Nature smiles In all her gay attire, Amid deep-tangled wiles Of hawthorn and sweet-brier. O would that she were here, That fair and gentle thing, Whose words are musical as strains Breathed by the wind-harp's string. O would that she were here, Where the free waters leap, Shouting in their joyousness, Adown the rocky steep,— Where rosy Zephyr lingers All the livelong day, With health upon his pinions, And gladness in his way. O would that she were here, Sure Eden's garden-plot Did not embrace more varied charms Than this romantic spot. O would that she were here, Where frolic by the hours, Rife with the song of bee and bird, The perfume of the flowers,— Where beams of peace and love, And radiant beauty's glow, Are pictured in the sky above, And in the lake below. O would that she were here— The nymphs of this bright scene, With song, and dance, and revelry, Would crown Bianca queen.

Pure as their parent springs! how bright The silvery waters stretch away, Reposing in the pleasant light Of June's most lovely day. Curving around the eastern side, Rich meadows slope their banks, to meet With fringe of grass and fern, the tide Which sparkles at their feet. Here busy life attests that toil, With its quick talisman, has made Fields green and waving, from a soil Of rude and savage shade. While opposite the forests lie In giant shadow, black and deep, Filling with leaves the circling sky, And frowning in their sleep. Amid this scene of light and gloom, Nature with art links hand in hand, Thick woods beside soft rural bloom, As by a seer's command. Here waves the grain, here curls the smoke, The orchard bends; there, wilds, as dark As when the hermit waters woke Beneath the Indian's bark. Oft will the panther's sharp, shrill shriek With the herd's quiet lowings swell, The wolf's fierce howl terrific break Upon the sheepfold's bell. The ploughman sees the wind-winged deer Dart from his covert to the wave, And fearless in its mirror clear His branching antlers lave. Here, the green headlands seem to meet So near, a fairy bridge might cross; There, spreads the broad and limpid sheet In smooth, unruffled gloss. Arched by the thicket's screening leaves, A lilied harbour lurks below, Where on the sand each ripple weaves Its melting wreath of snow. Hark! like an organ's tone, the woods To the light wind in murmurs wake, The voice of the vast solitudes Is speaking to the lake. The fanning air-breath sweeps across On its broad path of sparkles now. Bends down the violet to the moss, Then melts upon my brow.

Where dost thou loiter, Spring, While it behoveth Thee to cease wandering Where'er thou roveth, And to my lady bring The flowers she loveth. Come with thy melting skies Like her cheek blushing, Come with thy dewy eyes Where founts are gushing; Come where the wild bee hies When dawn is flushing. Lead her where by the brook The first blossom keepeth, Where, in the sheltered nook, The callow bud sleepeth; Or with a timid look Through its leaves peepeth. Lead her where on the spray, Blithely carolling, First birds their roundelay For my lady sing— But keep, where'er she stray True-love blossoming.

Clouds gathered o'er the dark blue sky, The sun waxed dim and pale, And the music of the waves was changed To the plaintive voice of wail; And fearfully the lightning flashed Around the ship's tall mast, While mournfully through the creaking shrouds Came the sighing of the blast. With pallid cheek the seamen shrank Before the deepening gloom; For they gazed on the black and boiling sea As 'twere a yawning tomb; But on the vessel's deck stood one With proud and changeless brow; Nor pain, nor terror was in the look He turned to the gulf below. And calmly to his arm he bound His casket and his sword; Unheeding, though with fiercer strength The threatening tempest roared; Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried: "For me there yet is hope, The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chain With the stormy wave may cope. "Now let the strife of nature rage, Proudly I yet can claim, Where'er the waters may bear me on, My freedom and my fame." The dreaded moment came too soon, The sea swept madly on, Till the wall of waters closed around, And the noble ship was gone. Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry; The swimmer's bubbling breath Was all unheard, while the raging tide Wrought well the task of death; But 'mid the billows still was seen The stranger's struggling form; And the meteor flash of his sword might seem Like a beacon 'mid the storm. For still, while with his strong right arm He buffeted the wave, The other upheld that treasured prize He would give life to save. Was then the love of pelf so strong That e'en in death's dark hour, The base-born passion could awake With such resistless power? No! all earth's gold were dross to him, Compared with what lay hid, Through lonely years of changeless woe, Beneath that casket's lid; For there was all the mind's rich wealth, And many a precious gem That, in after years, he hoped might form A poet's diadem. Nobly he struggled till, o'erspent, His nerveless limbs no more Could bear him on through the waves that rose Like barriers to the shore; Yet still he held his long prized wealth, He saw the wished-for land— A moment more, and he was thrown Upon the rocky strand. Alas! far better to have died Where the mighty billows roll, Than lived till coldness and neglect Bowed down his haughty soul: Such was his dreary lot, at once His country's pride and shame; For on Camoen's humble grave alone Was placed his wreath of fame.

'Twas on one morn, in spring-time weather, A rosy, warm, inviting hour, That Love and Faith went out together, And took the path to Beauty's bower. Love laughed and frolicked all the way, While sober Faith, as on they rambled, Allowed the thoughtless boy to play, But watched him, wheresoe'er he gamboled. So warm a welcome, Beauty smiled Upon the guests whom chance had sent her, That Love and Faith were both beguiled The grotto of the nymph to enter; And when the curtains of the skies The drowsy hand of Night was closing, Love nestled him in Beauty's eyes, While Faith was on her heart reposing. Love thought he never saw a pair So softly radiant in their beaming; Faith deemed that he could meet no where So sweet and safe a place to dream in; And there, for life in bright content, Enchained, they must have still been lying, For Love his wings to Faith had lent, And Faith he never dream'd of flying. But Beauty, though she liked the child, With all his winning ways about him, Upon his mentor never smiled, And thought that Love might do without him; Poor Faith abused, soon sighing fled, And now one knows not where to find him; While mourning Love quick followed Upon the wings he left behind him. 'Tis said, that in his wandering Love still around that spot will hover, Like bird that on bewildered wing Her parted mate pines to discover; And true it is that Beauty's door Is often by the idler haunted; But, since Faith fled, Love owns no more The spell that held his wings enchanted.

Strike the wild harp yet once again! Again its lonely numbers pour; Then let the melancholy strain Be hushed in death for evermore. For evermore, for evermore, Creative fancy, be thou still; And let oblivious Lethe pour Upon my lyre its waters chill. Strike the wild harp yet once again! Then be its fitful chords unstrung, Silent as is the grave's domain, And mute as the death-mouldered tongue, Let not a thought of memory dwell One moment on its former song; Forgotten, too, be this farewell, Which plays its pensive strings along! Strike the wild harp yet once again! The saddest and the latest lay; Then break at once its strings in twain, And they shall sound no more for aye: And hang it on the cypress tree, The hours of youth and song have passed, Have gone, with all their witchery; Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last.

When on thy bosom I recline, Enraptur'd still to call thee mine, To call thee mine for life, I glory in the sacred ties, Which modern wits and fools despise, Of Husband and of Wife. One mutual flame inspires our bliss; The tender look, the melting kiss, Even years have not destroyed; Some sweet sensation, ever new, Springs up and proves the maxim true, That love can ne'er be cloy'd. Have I a wish?—'tis all for thee, Hast thou a wish?—'tis all for me, So soft our moments move, That angels look with ardent gaze, Well pleas'd to see our happy days, And bid us live—and love. If cares arise—and cares will come— Thy bosom is my softest home, I'll lull me there to rest; And is there aught disturbs my fair? I'll bid her sigh out every care, And lose it in my breast. Have I a wish?—'tis all her own; All hers and mine are roll'd in one— Our hearts are so entwined, That, like the ivy round the tree, Bound up in closest amity, 'Tis death to be disjoined.

Oh, weep not for the dead! Rather, oh rather give the tear To those that darkly linger here, When all besides are fled; Weep for the spirit withering In its cold cheerless sorrowing, Weep for the young and lovely one That ruin darkly revels on; But never be a tear-drop shed For them, the pure enfranchised dead. Oh, weep not for the dead! No more for them the blighting chill, The thousand shades of earthly ill, The thousand thorns we tread; Weep for the life-charm early flown, The spirit broken, bleeding, lone; Weep for the death pangs of the heart, Ere being from the bosom part; But never be a tear-drop given To those that rest in yon blue heaven.

Mine own beloved, believest thou ought of this? Oh! then no more My heart, o'er early faded dreams of bliss Its wail shall pour. Give me this hope, though only from afar It sheds its light, And, like yon dewy melancholy star, With tears is bright— Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught, That could not sin Against its worshipped idol, e'en in thought, Thy love may win: Let me but hope the changeless love of years, The tender care That fain would die to save thine eye from tears, Thy heart may share. Or let me hope at least that, when no more My voice shall meet The ear that listens only to think o'er Tones far more sweet; When the kind shelter of the grave shall hide This faded brow, This form once gazed upon with pride, With coldness now; When never more my weary steps of pain Around thee move, When loosed for ever is life's heavy chain, Love will win love.

I have passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night, I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light; I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay sleeping, And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping. My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night, Which withers and moulders the flower in its light, Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow, And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low; I culled the fair bud as it danced in its mirth, And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth. I passed o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high; The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight, And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night. I stay not to gather the lone one to earth, I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth, But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave, I stop not to pity—I stay not to save. I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there; It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair! The deep purple fountain seemed melting away, And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play; She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me, I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free. The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along, With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song; The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love, And sweet, and half sad were the numbers he wove. I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung; O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly hung; The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone, O'er the newly-raised turf and the rudely-carved stone.

Farewell to thee, To thee, the young home of my heart, farewell! How often will thy form in memory Renew the spell; Each burning tone, Far sweeter than the wild bird's melting note; Across my spirit like a dream by-gone, Their voices float. When rose the song, The life gush of the bosom, fresh and free, There breathed no sorrow as it swept along Thy halls of glee; Oh, when the gay, The merry hearted blend the tide again, Then fling to her, the loved one far away, One kindly strain. The skies are bright That canopy thy bowers, my soul's young rest; And, like thy fairy visions, robed in light, The loveliest: The bird among Thy deep perfumes pours its rich melody; Oh, in the music of that matin song Remember me! Another now, Mother, above thy silvery locks must bend; And when the death-shade gathers on thy brow, Who then will tend Thy fading light? Oh, in its gleam all feebly, tremblingly, The last gush of thy spirit in its flight, Remember me! Sister, one sigh Upon the midnight's balmy breath did float; One love-lit smile beneath the summer sky, One echo note: Oh, never yet, Through love, life, music, feeling, fragrancy, Can I the mingling of those hours forget; Remember me! The chained spell Is strong, my own fair home, that bids us sever; And bound in loveliness to break, no, never! Then fare thee well: And perished here, As from the rosy leaf the dew that fell, I dash from love's young wreath the passing tear; My own bright home, farewell!

Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell Of book, of rosary, and bell; Of cloistered nun, with brow of gloom, Immured within her living tomb; Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song, Borne gently by the breeze along; Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell; Of ave maria, and funeral knell; Of midnight taper, dim and small, Just glimmering through the high-arched hall; Of gloomy cell, of penance lone, Which can for darkest deeds atone: Roll back, and lift the veil of night, For I would view the anchorite. Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale, Shuddering at Superstition's tale; Crossing his breast with meagre hand, While saints and priests, a motley band, Arrayed before him, urge their claim To heal in the Redeemer's name; To mount the saintly ladder, (made By every monk, of every grade, From portly abbot, fat and fair, To yon lean starveling, shivering there,) And mounting thus, to usher in The soul, thus ransomed from its sin. And tell me, hapless bigot! why, For what, for whom did Jesus die, If pyramids of saints must rise To form a passage to the skies? And think you man can wipe away With fast and penance, day by day, One single sin, too dark to fade Before a bleeding Saviour's shade? O ye of little faith, beware! For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer, Would ought avail ye without Him, Beside whom saints themselves grow dim. Roll back, thou tide of time, and raise The faded forms of other days! Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand, The work of some forgotten hand, Will teach thee half thy mazy way, While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play. Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell Of secret charm, of holy spell, Of Superstition's midnight rite, Of wild Devotion's seraph flight; Of Melancholy's tearful eye, Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh, That trembling from her bosom rose, Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woes And some warm image lingering there, Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer, Still, like an outcast child, will creep Where sweetly it was wont to sleep, And mingle its unhallowed sigh With cloister-prayer and rosary; Then tell the pale, deluded one Her vows are breathed to God alone; Those vows, which tremulously rise, Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice.

When in the shadow of the tomb This heart shall rest, Oh! lay me where spring flowers bloom On earth's bright breast. Oh! ne'er in vaulted chambers lay My lifeless form; Seek not of such mean, worthless prey To cheat the worm. In this sweet city of the dead I fain would sleep, Where flowers may deck my narrow bed, And night dews weep. But raise not the sepulchral stone To mark the spot; Enough, if by thy heart alone 'Tis ne'er forgot.

I'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid! and I rest In mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast; At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat, When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat. When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses flow In beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow; O then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art, And listen to music which steals from thy heart. Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul, My tempest the clouds, which around thee may roll; I feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs, And drink at the fount of those beautiful eyes. The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me; There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknowledged by thee, Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast, Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest. Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies, With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled skies; I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping, To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping. I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight, Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night; Then remember, wherever your pathway may lie, Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy; My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art, My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart. Farewell! for the shadows of evening are fled, And the young rays of morning are wreathed round my head.

Not in the shadowy wood, Not in the crag-hung glen, Not where the sleeping echoes brood In caves untrod by men; Not by the sea-swept shore Where loitering surges break, Not on the mountain hoar, Not by the breezeless lake, Not in the desert plain Where man hath never stood, Whether on isle or main— Not there is Solitude! There are birds in the woodland bowers, Voices in lonely dells, And streams that talk to the listening hours In earth's most secret cells. There is life on the foam-flecked sand By ocean's curling lip, And life on the still lake's strand 'Mid flowers that o'er it dip; There is life in the tossing pines That plume the mountain crest, And life in the courser's mane that shines As he scours the desert's breast. But go to the crowded mart, 'Mid the sordid haunts of men, Go there and ask thy heart, What answer makes it then? Go where the wine-cup's gleaming, In hall or festal grot; Where love-lit eyes are beaming, But Love himself is not!— Go—if thou wouldst be lonely— Where the phantom Pleasure's wooed, And own that there—there only— 'Mid crowds is Solitude.

Where have the valiant sunk to rest, When their sands of life were numbered? On the downy couch? on the gentle breast Where their youthful visions slumbered? When the mighty passed the gate of death, Did love stand by bewailing? No! but upon war's fiery breath Their blood-dyed flag was sailing! Not on the silent feverish bed, With weeping friends around them, Were the parting prayers of the valiant said, When death's dark angel found them. But in the stern and stormy strife, In the flush of lofty feeling, They yielded to honour the boon of life, Where battle's bolts were pealing; When the hot war-steed, with crimsoned mane Trampled on breasts all stained and gory, Dashed his red hoof on the reeking plain, And shared in the rider's glory. Or seek the brave in their ocean grave, 'Neath the dark and restless water; Seek them beneath the whelming wave, So oft deep dyed with slaughter. There sleep the gallant and the proud, The eagle-eyed and the lion-hearted; For whom the trump of fame rang loud, When the body and soul were parted. Or seek them on fields where the grass grows deep, Where the vulture and the raven hover; There the sons of battle in quiet sleep: And widowed love goes there to weep, That their bright career is over.

I come in the breath of the wakened breeze, I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees; And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night, From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white. Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky, I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high; When my gay purple banners are waving afar; When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star; When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake, Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake! Thou may'st slumber when all the wide arches of Heaven Glitter bright with the beautiful fires of even; When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high, O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky, Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven, To their far away harbour, all silently driven, Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light, Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night; When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star; When all is in silence and solitude here, Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear! But when I steal silently over the lake, Awake thee then, maiden, awake! Oh, awake!

Not in the bannered castle Beside the gilded throne, On fields where knightly ranks have strode, In feudal halls—alone The Spirit of the stately mien, Whose presence flings a spell, Fadeless on all around her, In empire loves to dwell. Gray piles and moss-grown cloisters, Call up the shadows vast That linger in their dim domain, Dreams of the visioned past! As sweep the gorgeous pageants by We watch the pictured train, And sigh that aught so glorious Should be so brief and vain. But here a spell yet deeper Breathes from the woods and sky, Proudlier these rocks and waters speak Of hoar antiquity; Here Nature built her ancient realm While yet the world was young, Her monuments of grandeur Unshaken stand, and strong. Here shines the sun of Freedom For ever o'er the deep, Where Freedom's heroes by the shore In peaceful glory sleep; And deeds of high and proud emprize In every breeze are told, The everlasting tribute To hearts that now are cold. Farewell, then, scenes so lovely, If sunset gild your rest, Or the pale starlight gleam upon The water's silvery breast— Or morning on these glad, green isles In trembling splendour glows— A holier spell than beauty Hallows your pure repose!

Like the lone emigrant who seeks a home In the wild regions of the far-off west, And where, as yet, no foot of man hath come, Rears a rude dwelling for his future rest. Like him I have sought out a solitude Where all around me is unsullied yet, And reared a tenement of words as rude As the first hut on Indian prairies set. O'er his poor house ere thrice the seasons tread Their march of storm and sunshine o'er the land, Some lofty pile will rear its haughty head, And sway the soil with high and proud command. And round my verse the better, brighter thought Of beauty and of genius will be placed— Those gem-like words, with light and music fraught, By manly or by fairy fingers traced. Our fate's the same—the gentle and the proud Will speed their voyage to oblivion's sea, And I shall soon be lost amid the crowd That seek a place within thy memory.

Gone to the slumber which may know no waking Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell; Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking, In a lone mansion through long years to dwell; Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom, Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath: A seal is set upon thy budding bosom, A bond of loneliness—a spell of death! Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before thee Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours; Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee, And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers. The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence, Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance, And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days. How have the garlands of thy childhood withered, And hope's false anthem died upon the air! Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered, And his stern bolts have burst in fury there. On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even, Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust, Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven, Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust.

Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain, The last that either bard shall e'er essay! The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again, That first awoke them, in a happier day: Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way, His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave; And he who feebly now prolongs the lay Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honours crave; His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave! Friend of my youth, [M] with thee began the love Of sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams, 'Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove, O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams; Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage, For ever lit by memory's twilight beams; Where the proud dead, that live in storied page, Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age. There would we linger oft, entranc'd, to hear, O'er battle fields the epic thunders roll; Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear, Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole; There would we mark, uncurbed by all control, In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight; Or hold communion with the musing soul Of sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night, In lov'd Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light. Homeward we turned, to that fair land, but late Redeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast, Where mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate And kept the key, till three millenniums past; When, as creation's noblest work was last, Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to see Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast, And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be An empire and a home, most worthy for the free. And here, forerunners strange and meet were found, Of that bless'd freedom, only dreamed before;— Dark were the morning mists, that lingered round Their birth and story, as the hue they bore. "Earth was their mother;"—or they knew no more, Or would not that their secret should be told; For they were grave and silent; and such lore, To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold, The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old. Kind nature's commoners, from her they drew Their needful wants, and learn'd not how to hoard; And him whom strength and wisdom crowned, they knew, But with no servile reverence, as their lord. And on their mountain summits they adored One great, good Spirit, in his high abode, And thence their incense and orisons poured To his pervading presence, that abroad They felt through all his works,—their Father, King, and God. And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray, The quivering forest, or the glassy flood, Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day, They imaged spirits beautiful and good; But when the tempest roared, with voices rude, Or fierce, red lightning fired the forest pine, Or withering heats untimely seared the wood, The angry forms they saw of powers malign; These they besought to spare, those blest for aid divine. As the fresh sense of life, through every vein, With the pure air they drank, inspiring came, Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain, And as the fleet deer's agile was their frame; Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name; These simple truths went down from sire to son,— To reverence age,—the sluggish hunter's shame, And craven warrior's infamy to shun,— And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done. From forest shades they peered, with awful dread, When, uttering flame and thunder from its side, The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread, Came ploughing gallantly the virgin tide. Few years have pass'd, and all their forests' pride From shores and hills has vanished, with the race, Their tenants erst, from memory who have died, Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace, In each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequestered place. And many a gloomy tale, tradition yet Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain, Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet, To people scenes, where still their names remain; And so began our young, delighted strain, That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave, And bid their martial hosts arise again, Where Narraganset's tides roll by their grave, And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the wave. Friend of my youth! with thee began my song, And o'er thy bier its latest accents die; Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long,— Though not to me the muse averse deny, Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry, Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er; And he who loved with thee his notes to try, But for thy sake, such idlesse would deplore, And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more. But, no! the freshness of the past shall still Sacred to memory's holiest musings be; When through the ideal fields of song, at will, He roved and gathered chaplets wild with thee; When, reckless of the world, alone and free, Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way, That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea; Their white apparel and their streamers gay, Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray;— And downward, far, reflected in the clear Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees; So buoyant, they do seem to float in air, And silently obey the noiseless breeze; Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please, They part for distant ports: the gales benign Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees, To its own harbour sure, where each divine And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine. Muses of Helicon! melodious race Of Jove and golden-haired Mnemosyné; Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace, And drives each scowling form of grief away! Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay Once trod, and round the altar of great Jove; Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove, That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and filled his courts above. Bright choir! with lips untempted, and with zone Sparkling, and unapproached by touch profane; Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain; Rightly invoked,—if right the elected swain, On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore, Whose honoured hand took not your gift in vain, Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore,— [N] Farewell! a long farewell! I worship you no more.